


With the Stamina God Has Granted Us

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [10]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Consent Issues, Desperation, Dry Fucking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Marking, Porn with Feelings, Rank Disparity, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Alexander Hamilton has faced danger plenty of times since joining the Continental Army, but this is the first time he's ever been assumed dead. Safely returned to camp, he finds Washington heartbroken and frantic. Hamilton offers reassurance the best way he knows how.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: Surrender 'Verse [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/796566
Comments: 14
Kudos: 148





	With the Stamina God Has Granted Us

It is not the first time Alexander has nearly died in the line of duty, nor will it likely be the last. It's not even the worst he has scared his general—or the worst his husband has terrified _him_ during this ceaseless war—but there's something in their reunion tonight that feels more desperate than before. A thrumming, vibrating intensity holds unspoken as Washington dismisses both sentries and the camp physician.

It is not quite two in the morning. Hours remain until sunrise. And Hamilton stands perfectly still as Washington strides into the hallway and bars the front door behind the retiring officers.

Vast emptiness echoes through the entirety of headquarters for several seconds. The silence of the farmhouse is disconcerting, not even a fire crackling in the hearth, and Hamilton breathes with difficulty. Waiting for Washington to return.

When the door frame and darkened hall beyond remain vacant, Hamilton picks up his candle—the only light source at hand—and moves out of the workroom himself. Old floorboards creak beneath his boots, broadcasting his approach without subtlety. And yet despite this, Washington startles when Hamilton draws near, straightening from where he slumps against the heavy oak door. His face is all shadows in the dark hall, but even the faintly dancing candle flame bares a glimpse of heartbreak.

"I'm sorry." Hamilton's whisper makes the little lick of flame shiver. "I wanted to send word that I was safe, but I had no one I could trust to carry the letter." Deep as he'd been behind enemy lines, _anything_ that could identify him to the British would've been a death sentence.

Rather than answer or give absolution, Washington turns from the bolted door and takes a single wobbly step. He steadies himself quickly enough, and his subsequent movements are smoother. _Faster_. He rushes toward Hamilton so suddenly that the candle falls, winking out on its way to the floor.

Washington's arms around him are familiar and powerful, albeit more crushing than ever before as they wrap tight and hold on. Strong hands clutch in the back of Hamilton's uniform jacket, and Washington's face crushes into the crook of his neck. The gust of breath is hot over the skin above his cravat.

It takes Hamilton several seconds to raise his arms and return the crushing embrace. A complementary desperation twines through him, and he hates that he has frightened his husband so terribly—that he has caused such unmeasurable hurt. He aches to fix and shore up every crack he's caused in the sturdy foundation, but he does not know how.

After an eternity, Washington lets go and takes a single step back. Hamilton can't make out his face in the near perfect darkness of the hall, insufficient moonlight sneaking in through the tiny window beside the stairs.

Perhaps it's fortunate the candle snuffed itself out, or someone could have seen them through that window. A simple touch, but too frantic to be anything less than damning. Hamilton chastises his own carelessness, allowing Washington to hold him when they are outside the meticulous fortifications of their shared room. But then, he probably couldn't bear to keep his husband at arm's length tonight even if he'd considered the matter more rationally. Enough harm has surely been done already.

"George?" There is uncharacteristic caution in the way he says his husband's name. He can't entirely shake the sense that the wrong words will break them both.

"Go upstairs," Washington says in an urgent hush. "I will follow you shortly."

Hamilton could argue, but he won't. He recognizes the frantic tension for the signal it is.

Washington is close to shattering. So long as he can compose himself, reassure himself Hamilton is safe, tomorrow will be fine. Functional. Back to routine, as they both do their best to brace each other against the perpetual onslaught of war. But in order to reach that point, Washington is asking for a moment alone.

Hamilton does not _want_ to go, but surely he can give his husband this. It will not be a lengthy delay—Washington won't keep him waiting tonight.

"Don't take too long." Hamilton turns for the staircase. He leans down to recover the unlit candle by touch, and navigates carefully through the dark, climbing each step without taking his hand off the smooth banister. There is more light up here, the entire hallway glowing an eerie blue from a larger window at the back of the house. Yellow firelight flickers across the floorboards from the open door to their private chamber.

Bedroom and office are separate spaces in this particular house, but it's the narrow table in the bedroom at which Washington must have been working through heartbroken insomnia tonight. From a corner of that table, a sturdy metal lantern casts a warm glow that chases away the worst of the shadows. The heavy black curtains that block any glimpse in or out of the windows look oddly still in the otherwise flickering firelight.

Hamilton hesitates just inside the door, setting down the unlit candle and remaining motionless. He hears no sound from downstairs, which means Washington is still standing pained and silent in the main hall.

Shocky restlessness hums beneath Hamilton's skin. A hint of guilt tinges the sensation, even though rationally he knows he has done nothing wrong. He was following his general's _direct orders_ , and an honest assessment leads to the inescapable conclusion that he performed well under untenable circumstances. He accomplished his objective, lost neither men nor resources, and ultimately returned alive and whole to his post.

He has nothing to apologize for. Nothing to regret. And yet he feels responsible for his husband's agony, and helpless to remedy the wounds cut by his brief absence.

It is not conscious decision so much as _feeling_ that guides him now, as he begins to strip methodically down. His hands are incongruously steady as he undresses, shucking boots, jacket, waistcoat, breeches. Last of all he folds his shirt as carefully as the rest and sets it aside. Still there is no sound, so he climbs into bed, tucking himself beneath the thin blanket. Settling into an unconvincing facade of rest as he waits for Washington to return.

He will not sleep. Even exhausted as he is, there's no danger of nodding off as the seconds and minutes stretch.

So much time passes that Hamilton considers putting his uniform back on and descending in search of his husband. He wants to respect the request for space, the need for solitude, but his willpower is finite. Relief leaves him shaking when finally he hears the gradual, heavy tread of footfalls on the old staircase.

Hamilton doesn't know precisely what to expect, even as Washington finally traverses the hall and appears in the open door frame.

There is too much emotion to parse in the intense brown of Washington's eyes. Hamilton can interpret glimpses—pain, gratitude, fear—because he knows his general too well for the man to ever be a true cipher. But the whole of it is like a tidal wave, too much to break down into its component pieces. Then again, Hamilton does not need to break the storm down in order to break _through_. He knows what his husband needs.

"Come here," Hamilton says softly, lifting the edge of the blanket to welcome him to bed.

It takes only a moment for Washington to stir, finding his forward momentum. Into the room, securing the door behind him. Moving with measured care as though every step costs him mental effort and control.

Hamilton watches with rapt and unapologetic attention as Washington undresses. The emotional rigors of the day can't quell his physical desire for the man stripping bare before him. If anything, they heighten the sense of urgency beneath his skin. They remind him viscerally that he is alive—that he is _here_ —and more than anything, they make him desperate to touch.

Soon enough Washington extinguishes the lantern and slips into bed beside him, crushing Hamilton tight in his arms.

"I thought you were dead." Washington's voice is a low rumble of thunder, a stormy sky heavy with clouds, a ferocious coil of electric charge. Every feeling glints, reflected in fathomless dark eyes.

"I'm right here." Hamilton burrows closer against the powerful chest. "I'm safe, and whole, and _right here_."

When Washington kisses him, Hamilton anticipates rough hands. He expects his husband to hold him down, put him where he needs to be. Forcefulness and perfect understanding. It's how things usually transpire between them, thanks to Hamilton's candor about his cravings and Washington's willingness to indulge them. And it's certainly how things go when they are under extra stress—that additional nudge of brutality exactly what both of them need to take the edge off—to hide from the overwhelming pressures of war, just for a while.

But despite all the inescapable strength with which Washington puts him on his back, the kiss is soft. There are no bruises bestowed by those big hands. Even the pinning weight settling on top of him feels uncharacteristically gentle. Careful. Hamilton is accustomed to a certain unspoken reverence, but this moment is something else entirely.

Even as the kiss deepens, turning messy with hunger, everything else between them remains more soothing than severe. Hamilton shivers, arches beneath Washington's body. Trying without words to signal that everything is okay. He's fine. He doesn't need Washington to go easy on him.

But Washington persists in treating him with alarming tenderness, and Hamilton doesn't know what it means.

"Sir?" he asks when at last the kiss breaks. He feels lightheaded, not for want of air but with the edges of lingering confusion.

Washington does not answer with words, but he moves now, purpose in the way he parts Hamilton's thighs and slips into the space between. Washington's stiff cock has been nudging at his hip since the moment Washington joined him in bed, but now the blunt tip presses somewhere far more intimate. Hamilton hums an encouraging sounds and spreads his legs wider.

Here too he expects pain. He would welcome pain. A vicious thrust to penetrate him, fill him, hurt him in exactly the ways he yearns for.

But instead the head of Washington's cock presses into him by maddening degrees. The process is gradual, and deliberate, and when Hamilton tries to rock his hips forward to take more—

Washington stops him. Holds him still so effortlessly it might be humorous on a different night. As it is, Hamilton breathes a sound equal parts frustration and confusion, and instinctively tries again.

Again Washington prevents his efforts, continuing to ease into Hamilton's body with the same impossible slowness. It feels as though he is _trying_ to make sure this moment will never end.

The revelation comes to Hamilton like a bolt of lightning directly overhead: that is _exactly_ what Washington is doing. This isn't just sex. It has nothing to do with giving Hamilton what he perpetually craves, or sating Washington's own more forceful impulses. It has nothing in common with the measured, beautiful violence they share whenever they can.

This is Washington needing something else entirely.

Hamilton stills with difficulty. He wraps his arms around Washington's neck, presses his forehead beneath the strong jaw. He clings and does his best to be good. It's difficult. Even with Washington's body and hands holding him down, it's a challenge to simply _comply_ when his own inclinations tonight trend toward sharper, crueler expectations. He anticipated Washington would fuck him; he did _not_ anticipate it would be like this.

There is the faintest suggestion of discomfort, dry as Washington's cock is inside him. And yet even before the entire length has managed to fill him, that discomfort is fading. Hamilton's body adjusts readily to the accustomed intrusion, his hot inner muscles relaxing without thought. It's so fucking good. For all that gentleness was not what he hoped for when Washington set the door latch, the intimacy of it makes him tremble and moan.

" _Please_ ," he gasps when at last Washington's body settles flush against his own—flush between his thighs—soft stomach, soft weight, soft bulk of muscle bearing him into the mattress. "Please, oh fuck, George—"

"Yes," Washington says. But instead of fucking Hamilton hard and fast, he remains utterly motionless for several seconds.

Ten seconds.

Thirty.

God, is he _trying_ to drive Hamilton out of his mind?

"Please, _fuck me_ ," he growls now, holding onto Washington even harder.

"Not yet." Washington's lips brush his temple with the words. "I want to hold you."

" _Hold me_?" Hamilton echoes, incredulous, the question little more than a disbelieving hiss. If Washington only wanted to hold him, why did he put his cock in Hamilton at the same time? Why hold him immobile even now, stubborn and unrelenting? Why torment him with this glorious fullness and not follow through?

Before Hamilton can give voice to this torrent of aroused exasperation, Washington kisses him again. Deep and eager and commanding. It's a kiss that proclaims unapologetic dominance, and Hamilton melts instantly beneath it. Never mind his own impatience to move, he will do _anything_ for Washington. Even wait through whatever is happening between them now, behaving himself as long as necessary.

He submits to the kiss. Returns it. Answers the exploring swipe of tongue with a teasing nip at Washington's lower lip. When Washington eases back, Hamilton forces any hint of shadows out of his own expression and gives what he hopes is a mischievous smile.

It must not entirely succeed, or perhaps Washington's mood is too grim to appreciate mischief. The general's face remains thunderous, eyes bright with a somber cascade of emotion. If not for the rigid length still inside him, Hamilton might wonder if Washington were no longer in a prurient mood. But the inescapable line of cock is still hard—and better still, a second later finally moves. Easing back. Easing out of him by degrees, every bit as maddening as before.

This time Hamilton does not try to rush things along. The smile, thin as it was to begin with, drops from his face as he meets Washington's eyes.

It is disconcerting to be studied so closely, unable to look away. Rationally, Hamilton knows his husband watches him constantly. In the workroom, in the field, and especially in the throes of wild intimacy—but usually when Hamilton begins to feel overwhelmed by the weight of all that attention, he can avert his focus. Lose himself in sensation, in touch, in his own chaotic emotions.

Tonight he cannot retreat. He is riveted by Washington's stare, and he can no more look away than he can hurry his husband's glacial pace. Exacerbating the problem is the fact that his voice is stuck in his chest. He can't beg for more-faster- _harder_ , no matter how long this torment lasts.

When only the very tip of Washington's cock remains inside him, Hamilton drags in a shuddering breath. Surely now Washington will really lay into him.

But Washington only repeats the same slow, steady maneuver. Watching him the entire time. Making Hamilton take it, so surely that he doubts he could resist Washington's measured restraint if he tried.

By the time Washington is fully sheathed a second time, restlessness makes it nearly impossible for Hamilton to keep still. A third repetition feels more than ever like torture, despite the uncomplicated physical pleasure playing through his body.

" _Oh god_ ," is all he manages to say, and he wraps his legs around Washington's waist. Still can't coax him to a more brutal pace, and this time he knows for certain because he _is_ trying.

Washington will not be goaded.

Somewhere after that third glacial thrust, Washington ducks his head to nuzzle beneath Hamilton's jaw. The sharp, unexpected _bite_ is a welcome distraction from the way heat and arousal are creeping ever sharper along Hamilton's senses. He didn't know it was possible to be this turned on without coming, and yet every moment the pleasure mounts—until this buzzing anticipation every bit as excruciating as the glorious heights of pain to which Washington so often carries him.

The sting of teeth shifts, finds a new spot to mark—a place just above the shoulder—and Hamilton sobs. He's strung so tight he can't think. Desperate for release, certain it will take an eon before it comes. He doesn't know how many times Washington has withdrawn and filled him. Ten? Twenty? He can't keep still. He is shaking apart, the ache inside him different from the raw, fucked-out sensation of rough use. It leaves his senses buzzing and his lungs tight.

"I've got you," Washington murmurs in his ear.

Hamilton realizes he's begun crying without noticing his own tears. Not the usual heaving sobs of agony and exertion, but a quieter, more breathless reaction. His cheeks are wet, and when he licks his lips he tastes salt.

Only now, after a cruel eternity, does Washington _finally speed_. More familiar force catches up to the measured thrusts. His hot breaths turn ragged along Hamilton's skin, and he drives forward harder now. A more vicious fucking that takes the arousal that is already too much and—blessedly—shatters it.

Hamilton cries out, spending at last while Washington pounds into him. His body, already right there on a precarious edge, tumbles into orgasm easily now that the moment is upon him. He sobs into Washington's chest. Clings harder than ever to broad shoulders. Rolls his hips to meet each brutal thrust until spent exhaustion carries him under.

Then there is nothing he can do but lie there as Washington continues to fuck him. Each thrust is sharper and faster than the last, as though making up for lost time. Hamilton is too tired to cry out, though it hurts properly now. The intrusion of a thick cock impaling his tired body is perfect, no lubrication beyond the slick of precome. Hamilton savors the panting, crushing rhythm. He thrills at the aching sensations of his beautiful husband, on top of him, inside him. He rides it out, wondering if all this will be enough to settle the fear in Washington's eyes.

He must doze off before the end—or perhaps pass out as the ceaseless assault overwhelms him—because he wakes with jolting suddenness in Washington's arms. Awareness rushes in on him, and he recognizes that he is still in bed. Naked. Clean. Warm in the protective circle of Washington's arms. Hamilton is resting on his side, his husband a hot line all along his back, and the empty space between his legs throbs with delightful soreness.

"All you all right now?" Hamilton snugs himself deliberately back, twining himself deeper into the embrace.

"Perhaps I will be tomorrow." Washington's arm shifts around him and cinches tighter. "I was not prepared to lose you like that."

"You didn't lose me."

"For three hours I did not know that. I knew only that you had died in service to our cause. I began drafting a letter to Eliza, but I couldn't—" Washington's voice cracks and stops, and Hamilton reaches up to cover his husband's hand and squeeze reassuringly.

He can imagine how nightmarish a task that must have been—drafting a letter to the woman the world perceives as Hamilton's wife—informing her that her dear friend is dead. And all the while Washington had to recognize himself a widower, the one who had truly lost his heart when Hamilton fell.

But Hamilton is not dead, and he raises Washington's hand to his mouth. Kisses the trembling wrist. Breathes out slowly when Washington slips from his hold to fidget with Hamilton's wedding ring.

"I'm still here," he vows. It isn't much—it isn't _enough_ —but it will have to do.

It is the only promise he can make.


End file.
